Deliver Us
by Crunch
Summary: The end is just beginning... *reposted*


Deliver Us~ by Crunch  
  
*accidently, stupidly deleted by me, and THEN reposted*  
  
Well, why not? It's not exactly X3. . . think of it more as X10, or so. tell me if it begs continuation? Should there be a next chapter?? Review???  
  
Disclaimer- I own nothing. . . not even a witty disclaimer.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Prepare for the final awakening  
  
Prepare for the time it has come  
  
Look to the heavens, a crack in the sky  
  
The ending of time has begun  
  
Deliver us. . .  
  
~*~  
  
Rogue was dreaming of John. . .  
  
They stood on a beach, her pale, silken hand in his squarish tanned one, their palms fitting together like puzzle pieces, pressed so tightly they might have been fused to one another.  
  
The subzero sea foam lapped at their bare ankles, eating away at the pebbly sand beneath their feat each time it inhaled, and spraying their legs with salt and seaweed every time it exhaled. Before them, the setting sun shone a spitfire red. . . deeper then that, a blazing scarlet, though there was nothing unusual or frightening about it. Only an unspoken sadness hung in the rapidly cooling air like bitter perfume.  
  
John turned his face towards hers, his grip tightening and his chiseled features drawn in a painful smile, his coffee colored eyes glittering. "This is it, huh?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"This is the end."  
  
That sad little smile threatened to split her heart in two, and she was startled to find tears slipping in salty trails down her cheeks.  
  
Beneath her, the ocean sucked in a great, shuddering, trickling breath.  
  
"The end? How do you know?"  
  
He nodded towards the horizon, tousled sable hair ruffling in the thin little breeze. . . god, even the wind was sad. "Look at the sky."  
  
She looked. In the center of the sunset, a jagged blue streak sliced downwards through the burning red, shadowy and undefined, but there, looking like smoke from the tail end of a drowning jet plane. And the longer Rogue stared at it, the clearer it became, thickening before her eyes and leaking across the sky like India Ink.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Again, John smiled, his voice thick and gravely with sorrow. "It's a crack."  
  
For the first time, Rogue was frightened. Not late-night-monster-movie frightened. not even battling-the-forces-of-evil frightened. Because that kind of fear came with adrenaline, pounding in your heart and flowing through your limbs like liquid steal in the heat of battle, lifting you up. That kind of fear gave you the chance to rise above yourself. But this, this terrible, gut wrenching, soul shaking fear, soaking her forehead and weighing on her heart. . . this was something different.  
  
Because this was something she couldn't stop.  
  
"What's going to end?"  
  
He shrugged, his fingers now tight as steel bands around hers, and hers just as tight around his. They clung to each other like lifelines, even in the face of what she knew was the ending.  
  
"What's going to end, Pyro?"  
  
"The world. . . see?"  
  
And he was right. The beach sand squelching beneath their naked feet was draining, but this time, it wasn't the sea. Because the sea was draining too, in a backwards roar of glassy green, and the sky was collapsing inwards too, as the black tear in the sun spread ever further.  
  
"We. . . we should go. . ." Rogue stuttered, but without hope. She knew it was already too late, as the wind, now a silent, dieing air stream, slapped at their skin- pulling them towards the horrible spreading darkness. "I want to go, Pyro."  
  
"Go where?"  
  
The mists were closing in, fanning out across the horizon, drawing them in. She tugged on his hand, dread and desperation pulling at her heart, even though she was certain running would be futile. And where would they go? Where better then on the beach, as the night lay open at their feet, hand in hand until the very last.  
  
"We could go to the school?" She offered, but it was ridiculous. The school was gone.  
  
"Don't be afraid, Marie." John pressed his palm against hers with his last drop of strength, and she did the same, stepping closer until their hips pressed against each other in a melding of silk and denim, cotton and leather, sorrow and strength. Tears slipped from his eyes. . . he had such pretty eyes. "I'm not."  
  
Though her knees shook like mad and her stomach churned with molten lead, she managed a tiny smile. "Neither am I."  
  
They walked hand in hand into the sea, and into the darkness. . .  
  
~*~  
  
"Rogue."  
  
Rogue's head snapped upright from its resting place on her desk. At the head on the classroom, Mrs. Munroe- always Storm to her- stood next to a roll down map of the Prussian Empire, arms crossed and immense brown eyes dark with concern. Every face in face in class was trained on her, though her fellow students were more amused then worried for her health. Bobby himself was looking at her, his blue eyes very blue, and his mouth forming a downwards arc, a question on his lips. Face flushed, Rogue turned her gaze towards her desktop, and realized it shone with a dewy dampness.  
  
Embarrassed, she ran a gloved hand across her mouth for a drool check, but the light cotton fabric stayed dry. It took a moment to realize the moisture was staining her cheeks. . . she'd been crying in her sleep.  
  
"Are you alright, Rogue? Do you need to go to the nurse?"  
  
"No. . . no, Mrs. Munroe. Sorry. . ." Storm nodded, not willing to press the issue, and resumed her lecture. One by one, the students turned away, and Rogue's mind wandered to her dream.  
  
And it had been quite a dream- much too vivid for your average mid-class catnap. This dream came complete with 3D Technicolor and surround sound. She could still feel the waves at her ankles, and the breeze in her hair, and Pyro's hand in hers. She supposed she should feel guilty about that- Bobby would have been ruffled if he knew. But in the dream, she'd loved Pyro- not like Bobby, but it was love all the same. Simple, painful, friendly love. She could still feel that.  
  
And the sadness. The horrible, heart wrenching sadness in the face of the inevitable. In the face of the end of the world.  
  
It had seemed so real; perhaps this was what Logan felt when he dreamed. If he dreamed of his past, and she was certain he did, maybe this was how he dreamed it- all vivid colors and sensations. And if he felt the prick of each needle, and heard the buzz of each bone saw. . . it certainly would explain the muffled whimpers and howls that drifted through the not-quite- soundproofed door each night.  
  
"You ok, Rogue?" Distracted, she managed a bit of a smile for her boyfriend's benefit.  
  
"Fine. Just tired, I guess. . ."  
  
"Looks like it. You slept through the film strip. Come to think of it, so did I."  
  
She forced a laugh, and Bobby turned away, satisfied for the time being. Beneath her desk top, Rogue clasped her hands together in a valiant effort to remove the feel of Pyro's grip, and, feeling a bit foolish, shot a quick glance towards the sky outside the classroom window. There was no jagged black line in the sun, just a sea of blue over a patchwork of spring greens and earthy browns, and the occasional spurt of apple blossoms, resting on tree branches like perched pink butterflies.  
  
No beginning of the end here.  
  
Nearly fifty miles away, Pyro stirred on his arm cot, a tear sliding down the boy's cheek unbeknownst to him. He was dreaming of Rogue. . . 


End file.
